A Celtic Witch

A Celtic Witch By Debora Geary


A Modern Witch Series: Book 6

Chapter 1

“Cass, you’re on in five.” Dave, innkeeper and resident emcee, stuck his head into what passed for a dressing room in The Barn.

She grinned. “Is the place full yet?”

“Might be.” He thumbed over his shoulder as the unmistakable strains of world-class fiddling started up again. “Buddy’s warming them up for you.”

Buddy MacMaster didn’t warm up for anyone. But at the ripe old age of eighty-eight, he didn’t grace the stage so often anymore either. “I’m so glad he came tonight.”

Dave’s eyes crinkled. “He wouldn’t have missed hearing those strings of yours for the world. Told me so himself.”

“Strings.” She rolled her eyes. “Still can’t get any respect around here.”

She remembered the first time she’d walked into The Barn, a veteran performer already at the age of twenty-five. Newspapers all across the continent had heralded her tour, called her the hottest new fiddler in a generation. And then she’d come to Cape Breton, North America’s cradle of Celtic fiddling. Driven past foals prancing in the fields and cows that had reminded her oddly of the Irish hills of home.

And discovered the best fiddlers of any generation.

The rocks had called her here seventeen years ago—and until she’d parked outside The Barn in Margaree, she hadn’t known why. The genius of Buddy MacMaster’s fingers had pulled her through the door, knocked her into a seat, and kept her jaw on the floor half the night.

“You staying a few days?” Dave gently interrupted her reverie. “He says there’s a seat for you on Friday night if you want it.”

The weekly square dance, and probably the only place in the universe where she’d play second fiddle. Happily.

“Standard rates.” Dave hid a smile.

Her sigh was only a moderate one on the Irish scale—after seventeen years, she’d learned that her fee would be delivered whether she liked it or not. “Fine, but I’m paying full price for my room.”

“Mmmm.” The noncommittal sound suggested she wasn’t going to win that one this year, either. “You’re on in three.”

She shook her head as the door swung closed behind him. And reached for her fiddle—Cassidy Farrell was never late.

A couple of quick bow strokes and she had her strings tuned to each other and to the aching strains of the sad ballad Buddy was building to its peak. Pushing out the door of the small dressing room, she looked left toward the stage—and then turned right.

The rocks were pulling on her again, full of mischief this time. She made her way out the side door, shivering at the slicing wind. March in Cape Breton was never warm.

A full crowd, though, by the looks of the parking lot. Mostly locals at this time of year. With a friendly nod to a couple of stragglers, she stepped inside the main doors. Put bow to strings. And catching Buddy’s entry into the final verse, began to play.

Her fiddle sang long, low notes into the night and the warmth, quiet counterpoint to the talent on the stage.

Buddy’s eyes shot up, searching, and then he smiled and tipped his head back down to his violin.

He couldn’t see her way back here in the dark. Cass stepped forward into the light and added a tiny riff into her next measure. Coming.

He kept playing—Buddy had never been one for frills and ruffles. But she could feel the welcome in every note.

Eyes glued to the stage, she wound her way carefully between chairs, tables, and toddlers on the loose. Played the haunting notes that spoke of death come early to a golden warrior. Of honor for his clan and heartache for his love.

Country music had nothing on the melancholy Celts.

When she reached the foot of the low stage, Buddy finally spotted her, and the tears she’d been holding in the whole walk forward finally spilled. He was still here, still playing—and the part of her heart that rooted in the deep soil of this place finally dared to breathe.

She stepped onto the stage, her bow stroking the final disconsolate notes. A woman’s soul rended, parted forever from the man she loved.

And lifted her fiddle off her shoulder to hug the man who played the music that kept Cassidy Farrell’s soul whole.

-o0o-

The child was never going to survive to see her birthday.

Marcus tried not to growl as he dove out of his chair in Morgan’s direction. “Don’t eat the potted plants, sweetheart. They don’t taste good.”

She beamed up at him, her two new teeth gleaming in the middle of her happy, dirt-rimmed grin.

Dammit, how had he missed that? “Ate yourself some greenery already, did you?” Marcus reached for the baby bag, sighing. That was three times this week. People were going to talk.

“You needn’t fret.” Moira smiled contentedly from a chair by the fire. “A little dirt never hurt anyone.”

Perhaps not—but it probably wouldn’t mix well with the pea gravel she’d already ingested that morning. He released Morgan from his face-cleaning ministrations. “Why in tarnation is she trying to consume half of Fisher’s Cove?”

“Could be a lot of things.” Sophie sat at the table, sporadically working on her laptop in between mad dashes to keep Adam out of the room’s collection of cords and plugs. “Mineral deficiencies, teething, emerging earth powers.”

“Aye. Or maybe you just like strange tastes, sweet girl.” Moira handed a few cookie crumbs to the cruising Morgan. She looked over at Marcus. “They can have some odd opinions at this age. It’s nothing to worry about.”

He always had plenty to worry about. “Is she old enough for cookies?” Google had been very clear—no milk or eggs until she was at least a year old. Not that he had any idea when that blessed event would be—Morgan had shown up on his doorstep missing a lot of basic facts, like the day she’d been born. “What if she has allergies?”

Moira raised a pointed eyebrow. “Do I look like a witch fresh out of healing school?”

“We can scan for allergies.” Sophie stared studiously at her laptop, doing a very poor job of hiding her amusement. “And we have. You needn’t worry on that account. Morgan’s healthy as a horse.”

Yes, and assuming he could keep her away from garbage cans, potted plants, and the cookie-bearing womenfolk of the village, she might stay that way. He raised an eyebrow at Adam, who was making his slow and steady way over to the pile of dirt Morgan had left on the floor. And decided he had better things to do than play guardian to a potted plant.

Muttering under his breath, Marcus layered a simple containment spell over the greenery and raised an eyebrow at Adam. “See what you make of that, young troublemaker.”

Adam sat back on his very well-padded bottom and contemplated the dirt for a while.

“Well, you’ve slowed him down at least.” Sophie watched her son from the table.

Sometimes parenting required asserting control, whatever the female population of Fisher’s Cove believed. He glanced over at Morgan, who had made her way up onto the couch and was now playing with Moira’s pendant. And wondered if it was ancient enough to be full of lead and hexing spells.

“Don’t be silly.” Moira eyed him over her teacup. “I’ve yet to poison any grandchild of mine.”

He hadn’t said a word.

“Sit,” said Sophie gently, nodding at the pair on the couch. “Take a little downtime while you can get it. She’s not going anywhere for a bit.”

It was tempting—he had a very good book sitting on the arm of the parlor’s most battered and comfortable armchair.

“You parent alone, and you’re doing a marvelous job.” The respect in Sophie’s eyes shook him. “But the weight doesn’t have to be yours every moment of the day.”

He knew that. And if he forgot, a steady stream of people arrived on his doorstep every couple of hours to remind him. “I have plenty of help.”

Sophie looked over at her own son now, busy raiding a set of toy cups he’d found hidden on a shelf. “But you worry alone. Set that down for a bit too.”

Marcus had the oddest feeling they weren’t talking about him or Morgan anymore. Sophie’s eyes were far too bleak. And there had been quiet, concerned rumors. He tried, in his supremely awkward way, to offer comfort. “Adam is fine.”

She only gazed at her son.

Marcus was missing the circuits to talk to a woman—but he knew the rules of communal life. And much as he hated to admit it, he cared about a small boy and his mother. “What worries you?”

This time, the twinge of fear was stronger. “He’s different, Marcus. I can’t say how or why yet, but he’s not wired like most babies.”

So said the whispers. Small leaks of distress and love for a baby who just wasn’t quite right. He studied Adam, trying to ignore the niggling fear blooming in his own head. And finally knew what to say. “A lot of us are different.” He cleared his throat, studying lines worn into the inn’s polished old floor. “And we all find a home here.”

Her mind flooded with astonishment—and gratitude.

Marcus backed away, acutely embarrassed. He knew exactly nothing about babies and how they might turn out. Carefully not meeting Sophie’s eyes, he retreated to the armchair, his book, and a burning desire for the rest of the morning to be simple.

And found himself entirely unable to block out her quiet thanks.

-o0o-

Cass headed out of The Barn, fingers numb and head stuffed full of laughter, a few too many raucous twirls around the floor, and sublime music.

Outsiders might have said the inhabitants of Margaree had no idea what talent sat in the chairs of their informal music hall. That it was wasted on some tiny little town in the sticks.

They would have been wrong.

It was here, where the cliffs breathed Celtic mystery and the days were often short and fierce, that kitchen tables all across the small island nurtured the music that lived in her heart.

Small children and old, old men, aunts and sisters and awkward teenage cousins all gathering for the ceilidh. Food and dancing, gossip and music—the lifeblood that kept communities thrumming during the long days of a Cape Breton winter.

She’d played for thousands. Tens of thousands. People sitting politely in their seats and throngs on their feet, swept up by the music.

But she’d never played anywhere she loved better than The Barn.

So every year, over the protests of her very savvy marketing team and her long-suffering manager, she made her pilgrimage. It wasn’t going home to Ireland, which was a voyage of a different kind and one her marketing team could better appreciate.

This was a homecoming of the heart.

She tugged her wool toque down tighter over her ears. It was damn cold.

Stuffing hands in her pockets, she chuckled at her weak blood. “Just what were you expecting at this hour?”

“Still talking to yourself, I see.” Dave had caught up to her on the path that led from The Barn to his inn. “That was some fine fiddling tonight.”

Buddy had been in rare form. “He’s still a genius.”

She felt the smile on the path beside her. “I meant yours.”

She never played badly here. The rocks, the audience, and her pride would never permit it. “It’s good to be back.”

Dave stopped at the turn to the small house behind the inn. “I have you in your usual room. Need any help with your bags?”

“I’ll fetch them in the morning.” Wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept in her jeans and boots, and her other essentials had been dropped off earlier.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown bag. “Well, this ought to tide you over, then.”

She watched him walk up the graveled path lit only by a few brave stars peeking through the sullen night sky. And then took a look in the bag. Two scones, a bar of chocolate, and a toothbrush.

She walked the rest of the way in laughter, adoring the brisk wind stealing down her collar and the marvelous feeling of being thoroughly understood.

Most of which slunk away the moment she let herself into her room and discovered her laptop bag sitting in the middle of the bed, with something that could only be her cell phone vibrating in manic craziness on top of it. Damn. She should have left it sitting in the car along with her underwear.

Sadly, expensive gadgets didn’t handle Canadian winter nights quite as well as her woolies. And there were several people on her label’s management team who didn’t consider 2 a.m. a rude time to text. Especially if she’d been ignoring them for two days.

Sighing, Cass sat down on the bed and reached for the shaking phone. “Hush now, you’ll break yourself wiggling about that way.” Her Irish had picked up noticeably over the course of the evening. And it wasn’t the poor phone’s fault people kept abusing it so.

She scanned the texts. All the same. All from Tommy. Check your email.

Email meant he needed a longer answer than yes or no. Her kingdom for a problem that could be solved in three characters or less. She pulled the laptop out of its sleeve and dug the chocolate bar out of Dave’s care package. Time to pay the piper.

Leaning back against the bed’s mountain of pillows, Cass contemplated the nightmare that was her inbox. Draft tour schedules, six contracts to review, a few carefully screened messages from fans, and twenty-six “where the hell are you” emails from Tommy and his minions.

Where she always was this time of year—taking a break and feeding her soul. No hoopla, no advance team, no schedules. A chance to listen to the rocks and go where they called.

Email number forty-two made her laugh. Tommy wanted to install a bunch of safes for her fiddle. One for the bus, one for her apartment in New York, and some portable thingie that looked like a torture device. New insurance estimate. Apparently she was a legend now, and that made Rosie worth more money.

She refrained from emailing Tommy back and letting him know her precious million-dollar fiddle was currently sitting in a closet at The Barn along with several other violins. Strings didn’t like quick trips out into the blowing cold, and anyone could practice in The Barn day or night.

And maybe Rosie would snuggle up with Buddy’s fiddle and learn something.

Tommy probably didn’t want to hear about that, either.

She picked a tour schedule email at random and replied. I pay you the big bucks to figure this stuff out. Stick to the rules, and we’re good.

The rules were simple—no more than two towns a week, and she got to play at a dive in each one. Or what Tommy had taken to calling “a small, intimate venue.”

Someplace where Rosie could sing and she could see the faces of people swept up in the music. Or swept up in each other—at the last pub, she’d spent half the night watching an elderly couple in the corner. They’d shared a pint and held hands until the wee hours, and their eyes had gleamed with something that had tugged notes out of Rosie far later than planned.

Half a chocolate bar left and too wired to sleep. Cass pulled up her chat window—maybe someone in Ireland was up early. The little circles were all gray. Figured. Mum was probably out in her garden, trying to tease some poor bulb into sticking its head up early. Bri was likely chasing the twins, and Rory was either sleeping or eyeing the latest version of brunette and sexy sharing his bed. And Nan hated technology with a passion she usually reserved for husbands who’d caught something itchy in their nether regions.

Gah, she missed them all. Cape Breton always tugged on her Irish heartstrings.

A small light at the bottom of her chat window flashed purple. Cass raised an eyebrow—that was interesting. She pulled up a quick coding window. Something had been tracking her online lately. Nothing very obvious, just a whisper following her around. She’d tweaked the chat alert to let her know when it was close.

A wee Internet ghostie, as her mum might say. A benign one—the rocks would have let her know if danger lurked.

Cass brought up a couple of preprogrammed chunks of tracking code and tossed one casually at the ghostie. “Let’s see if we can follow you around for a bit instead, hmm?”

Her coding chunk slid off some invisible wall.

Huh. A wee ghostie with armor. Amused, she tried a second tracker, this one with a few more teeth, and chuckled as the flashing purple light faded away, a small bit of her code stuck to its butt. “Gotcha, cutie. Maybe tomorrow I’ll know who you are.”

The light flashed one last time, making her laugh. “Cocky, are you?”

She ate her remaining square of chocolate and closed the laptop. Next, she’d be talking to the cows outside the window. Definitely time for bed. The music had filled her up—she’d sleep like a baby.

And then do it all again tomorrow.